Domesticity
by elomelo
Summary: In which we catch glimpses of one Holmes, his Watson and their dog. Slash. Drabbles, ficlets, whathaveyou.
1. Dead of Night

_  
A series of drabbles in which we catch glimpses in the lives of our favourite detective and doctor team. Be warned that there will be varying degrees of slashyness (male/male) so if that isn't your cup of tea, find another teapot. Not to say there won't be other characters but the primary focus is their relationship. The chapters won't be in chronological order – you've been warned. Oh, and that pesky disclaimer, right: I'm borrowing from Guy Ritchie who borrowed from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. (Well. Sort of.) Your comments are welcome. _

_

* * *

_

**DOMESTICITY**_  
_

**

* * *

**

**Dead of Night**_  
In which we will pretend an operator was up to connect the call_

"H-Hello?"

"Good evening, Mrs. Watson. Does your husband not have adequate medicine on the top shelf of the pantry?"

"What?"

"The infection is mild now but it will gradually worsen if you don't have it looked at. One would think with a doctor in your bed, he'd ask _you_ for the appointment."

"Who is this?"

"Then again you married a man who can't tell if another man is dead."

A rustling of bed sheets. The creaking of a mattress.

"Give it here, Mary – who is this? Speak up!"

"No need to yell, Watson. My ears are perfectly fine, thank you, though I think your roaring has just –."

"Holmes."

"Yes?"

"It's...half past three."

"You're squinting at the clock again. I thought you put it in your planner somewhere to have your eyes checked."

A loud sigh. "Half past three, Holmes."

"That late already?"

"Has something happened?"

"If you mean the fact that Gladstone emptied the contents of his stomach six times over a period of twenty six minutes, then yes, a lot has happened. And a lot of it on my shoes for that matter."

"Holmes."

"Yes?"

"Go to sleep."

"I'm not tired."

"Play your violin."

"I don't want to."

"Stop being such an impetuous child."

"Is the sex terrible?"

"What?"

"Because you seem irritable, Watson. Surely, she's not that bad in bed. What with such a healthy man between her –."

_"What's he on about now, dear?"_

_"Ah, n-nothing!" _The voice drops to a hiss. "Holmes, I won't have you speaking about my wife that way."

"What way? I am merely stating the facts."

"No, you are stating carefully rehearsed points intended to make me leave my house and show up at your front step with a cane and a loaded revolver!"

"Ah, Russian roulette. Now there's one we haven't played in a while. I'll have Mrs. Hudson bring up some vodka.

The grinding of teeth. A lengthy sigh. "Good night, Holmes."

"I'll -."

A click. Then silence.

Mary looked at her husband as he turned off the lamp and slid back under the covers. "What was that about?"

"Nothing, darling, absolutely nothing." And John went to bed, grumbling about vodka and shooting mad men who had nothing else better to do on cold nights.

* * *

_The site's doing a weird thing with not letting me upload any new documents. I figured a way around it (by editing my existing documents and uploading those) but I don't know when I'll be able to have the next drabble up. Hopefully sometime soon. Please review :)_


	2. Breakfast

**DOMESTICITY**

* * *

**Breakfast**_  
In which the doctor does __**not**__ play footsies_

Why Watson had agreed to this madness, he himself did not know. He took a sip of his too-sweet Earl Gray and glared at the toast like it had offended his mother.

Holmes had never liked the elderly Mrs. Watson – it seemed neither of the Watson women sat well with him – so he picked the toast off Watson's plate and finished in three hearty bites.

"Holmes!"

"Don't throw a fuss, Watson," said the detective around a mouthful of his own toast, "Your shoulders are stiff and your expression quite off-putting. You weren't going to eat it anyway." He added as if it were an afterthought.

"_That_ is a disgusting habit."

"What?"

"Eating with your mouth open. _And_ eating off another's plate."

"You never complained about my methods before." The detective had the nerve to pout.

Watson huffed and grabbed the morning paper from beside the pitcher of orange juice. He shook it open and held it front of his face.

"My dear Watson, do your talents know no end?"

The paper shifted a little but no doctor came in view.

"Reading the paper upside down – most fascinating little trick. Did Mary teach it to – oof! Watson, did you just –?!"

"Whatever are you on about now, Holmes?"

"– kick me. You, sir – Oof! Watson!"

The doctor seemed too absorbed in his upside down morning paper to care.

So Holmes did what any other man would have done. He kicked Watson back, hard – _"Ow, my shin!"_ – and then suddenly became very interested in his hard-boiled egg. That is until a shoe-clad foot hit him between the legs. "Watson!"

"Was something the matter, old chap?"

Holmes gasped and wheezed and gasped some more.

"Oh, get over it, Holmes. It isn't like there was much to hurt anyway."

_**5 minutes later...**_

Mrs. Hudson had been in the employment of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes for three years and for all that he thought her a simpleton (and one out to smother him in his sleep), she'd long become accustomed to his antics. When she walked into the room and an expensive look vase flew in her direction, she merely ducked and made herself busy clearing the table. Her employer was crouching under said table, his unshaven face covered with more breakfast than he'd probably eaten. Beside him lay the comatose form of a dog, its stomach covered in strips of bacon.

"Mr. Holmes," said the woman rather blandly, piling the dishes, "What have you done to the poor creature now?"

"You cruel man!" yelped someone from behind an upturned armchair in one corner of the room. "Leave the dog out of this!"

"Good morning, Doctor Watson," said Mrs. Hudson to the armchair.

"How do you do, good lady?" came the reply.

"Stop fraternizing with the enemy!" hissed Holmes, tugging at the woman's skirt, "Tell me...do we have a large vat of toxins in the kitchen? It must be this big and deep enough to submerge a man of Dr. Watson's build?"

She didn't respond.

The detective lit his pipe and spit out a fried tomato before taking a puff. "Hm, well, I suppose a frying pan will have to do instead. Fetch me one quickly."

"Nice seeing you again, doctor," said Mrs. Hudson, taking the plates and making her way to the door.

"The same to you, madam."

"Send my greetings to the Mrs. Watson, would you?"

"With great pleasure. Good day."

Mrs. Hudson nodded in the direction of the arm chair and left the room, just missing the egg her employer had thrown at her.

Breakfast _was _always an interesting affair on 221B Baker Street.

* * *

_Yes it's all a bit cracky but these two are just too much fun. And I had to use that Harry Potter quote in there – cookies if you can guess which one I'm referring to. There might be semi-serious stuff in later drabbles. Maybe._


	3. Violin

**DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**Violin**_  
In which the doctor cannot sleep_

Never in a million years did Doctor Watson, M.D., think he would not be able to fall asleep on account of _not_ having Sherlock Holmes playing the bloody violin in the middle of the night. So when he calls said detective at three in the morning and Holmes says "Watson" with any preamble, he smiles and falls asleep listening to the breathing on the other line.


	4. Details

**DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**Details**_  
In which the doctor is not in_

Mrs. Hudson thought that particular shade of mauve made Ms. Adler's skin look rather lovely. The younger women smiled sweetly at the compliment and took the teacup with a nod, watching the housekeeper leave.

"I trust the train ride here was agreeable enough."

Irene turned her smile to the man before her, eyebrows lifted in mock-surprise. "However did you know, Mr. Holmes?"

"There is a return ticket sticking out from the wrist of your left glove."

She nodded. "The little details are the most important. Speaking of which, where is Dr. Watson?"

"At the clinic."

"Ah. How is he doing?"

"Your meaning, madam?"

She titled her head at his sudden defensiveness. "His wounds – he was caught in the worst of the explosion, after all."

Holmes took several puffs of his pipe before answering. "He is doing better. Leaning on his cane and wincing when he thinks no one's looking but better."

"But someone is looking." And the woman sipped her tea politely and looked out the window.


	5. A Different Perspective

**DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**A Different Perspective**_  
In which someone is in their sitting room_

He wakes. The monochromatic world slowly comes into focus.

The carpet is soft under him and smells like the droppings from the strange contraption the Man always seems to have in his mouth. The Man isn't here and neither is the Friend, but the other strange contraption the Man favours lies atop a table. He bats at it and it falls with a strange screeching noise, not too different from the noises it makes when the Man plucks at it.

He likes the Friend best. The Man doesn't rub his belly or throw him treats like the Friend. No, the Man much prefers feeding him things that make him feel strange or fall asleep, and then wake up feeling like some oaf of a human had stepped on him several times.

He hops onto an armchair and sniffs at the cushions. It smells of the Friend – of sick humans and clean skin with the slightest touch of tobacco from the Man's fingers.

Yawning, he stretches and lies down. He can hear the light pinpricks of human noises upstairs. A bark-like noise humans make, usually in the company of others, and then another noise, somewhere between a whine and a growl. This noise, humans prefer to make alone, as in the case with the Man before the Friend came back, but it seems the Man and the Friend make such noises in each other's company as well

Humans are such strange creatures, he muses, falling asleep as the noises fall silent.


	6. Buttons

**DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**Buttons**_  
In which Mary tastes Eden  
_

His lips are stained with the numerous glasses of wine Holmes no doubt shoved down his gullet. Razor-sharp wit or not, Mary Watson does not like her husband's affiliation with such a man. Her John is gentle and kind and could calm a tiger with a thorn in its paw. Holmes would probably dissect the tiger in every sense of the word and somehow tie it to her being a most unsuitable wife for his friend.

But this John, drunken and stumbling, is not as gentle and kind as she would like. His fingers fumble with the buttons of his waistcoat. When she tries to help him, he pushes her hands away. "Really, Mary, I'm not a...child. Not a child."

"No, of course not," she says, not commenting on the missing buttons on her husband's shirt.

She knows John well. He is faithful. When they make love, he looks into her eyes and she feels like a queen and not a simple, sheltered governess, as in the words of Sherlock Holmes. He loves her and tells her often. He holds her hand and looks upon her as if she were the most beautiful thing in the word.

She nods. It must've been a fight with that man. Holmes revels in violence and chaos, and does not care for the belongings of others.

She touches John's arm and he looks at her as if seeing her for the first time. He puts a hand to her face, smoothing a thumb over her cheekbone, and then kisses her gently.

He tastes like wine and tobacco.

"Did you smoke, darling?" she asks, pushing the hair from his eyes.

"No, no, I never smoke. You know that." He puts out the light and reaches for her but she pushes is hands away.

"I'm tired, John."

If he hears her voice breaking, he doesn't let on.

She lies beside him, feeling as if she never really knew him at all.


	7. Opera

_I'm glad some of you are enjoying these drabbles/ficlets so far. If you have a chance, please give my other story 'Miles of Sea' a read. It is angsty and focuses on Holmes during Watson and Mary's wedding.

* * *

_

**DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**Opera**_  
In which the dark is pleasant_

Why Holmes even pretends to be in suspense bemuses Watson. The detective has never been a man to care what other people think, especially not the stuffy, pretentious ladies and gentlemen with their delicate opera glasses and breathy little gasps. It's barely been two minutes since the protagonist discovered her brother dead and Watson can almost hear the gears in the other man's head turning. He's figured out who's done it.

When the jealous ex-lover turned murderer reveals himself and then takes his own life– and those little gasps become one large gasp –Holmes fingers find his in the dark.

When the curtains fall, Watson taps his free hand against the arm of his seat and smiles.

* * *

_Please review – your comments are much appreciated._


	8. Nanny

**DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**Nanny**_  
In which Mrs. Hudson silently thanks Watson_

Funny little man that he is, plucking at his dusty violin and sniffing her tea before taking a ginger sip, Mrs. Hudson is fond of Mr. Holmes. Not that she'd ever admit it of course – good heavens, the fool would think it a scheme to lure him into her supposed many traps.

The only torture she imposes on him is withholding Dr. Watson's letters until he eats his soup. Which he does, getting most of it on himself to spite her, before snatching the envelopes out of her hands. He rips them roughly as he dismisses her but she knows he keeps them in a small box she once found when she was cleaning.

As much as she likes the polite doctor and shares with him the rare tolerance for the antics of one Sherlock Holmes, she wishes he'd be away more often on trips with the fair Mrs. Watson. After all, it wasn't everyday Mr. Holmes ate his soup.


	9. Letters

_In case you were wondering about the letters Mrs. Hudson was using to make Holmes eat up...

* * *

_

**DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**Letters**_  
In which Watson does __**not**__ sniff at his letters_

Dear Holmes,

We have arrived at the Morstan family home. It's a tidy little villa tucked away in the countryside. You would love it here.

Mary sends her greetings and hopes you are in good health. She worries you eat too little. I worry you drink too much.

Take care of yourself, old friend.

Sincerely,

_**J. Watson**_

* * *

Dear Watson,

Mrs. Watson's concern, while endearing, is quite unnecessary. I am a grown man and perfectly capable of taking care of myself despite what your wife or that evil witch downstairs may think. As for my drinking habits and your concerns for said habits, the words _pot_, _kettle_ and _black_ come to mind.

Taking care of myself,

**S. Holmes**

P.S. I am glad to hear you are enjoying your holiday.

* * *

Dear Holmes,

I am sorry if I have offended you. It is not place to say what you can or cannot do with your life. I was merely expressing my concern for your health as would any friend.

Sincerely,

_**J. Watson**_

P.S. How is Gladstone? Alive, I hope?

* * *

Dear Watson,

Your apology, however dictated by the ever-lovely Mrs. Watson, is accepted. You must be more careful with your pen, yours blots are too telling.

I spend my days by the fire to warm my feet and our still-breathing mutt nibbling at my socks. He misses you.

_**S. Holmes

* * *

**_

Dear Holmes,

I take back what I said. You would hate it here. The most exciting thing to have happened is that Mary caught her maid taking more than her share of cheese from the pantry.

I am glad to hear Gladstone is alive, if not forever scarred by your questionable hygiene. I miss him too.

Sincerely,

_**J. Watson**_

* * *

Dear Watson,

The maid is also stealing the pickle.

_**S. Holmes**_

* * *

Dear Holmes,

Unparalleled deduction _and_ telepathy? You impress me, sir.

**J. Watson

* * *

**

The stains on the tops of three envelopes are credited to fingers in the pickle jar.

_**S. Holmes

* * *

**_

You keep my letters?

_**J. Watson

* * *

**_

Holmes, do not ignore me.

_**J. Watson

* * *

**_

The scent of your sherry on your letters is fading. Send me another one so I may have something to ward off this ghastly perfume Mary's sister gave her.

_**J. Watson

* * *

**_

Glad to be of service, doctor.

_**S. Holmes**_

* * *

_Please review :)_


	10. Kiss

**DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**Kiss**_  
In which gentlemen do not make out _

Despite the fact that Watson seemed perfectly nonchalant after that night Holmes had kissed him for the third time without his permission, Holmes kissed him again. Except this time it was day out and they were both fully dressed. And Watson was very much sober. The doctor's hands flew up to Holmes's chest as if to push them away but somehow, they found their way in the other man's hair and then the cravat around his neck and then the buckle of his belt.

Holmes found he rather liked the inside of Watson's mouth, warm and wet and sweet. If he tired of it, he would dip his head and his tongue would find the taut skin of the doctor's neck and the saltiness there. He hissed as the doctor pulled his head up roughly and kissed him, biting and licking at his lips like a frenzied animal.

Holmes groaned into his mouth.

A knock at the door and they sprang apart like thieves.

Holmes opened the door a crack. "Oh, it's _you_."

Mrs. Hudson refrained from rolling her eyes. "Sir, the carriage is here."

He shut the door and buttoned up his shirt in front of the dusty mirror. Of course, he wasn't looking at Watson's reflection in said mirror, lips swollen and red, neck marked.

"Holmes, I -."

"You heard the woman. Come now, Watson, you mustn't be late for your own wedding."

They finished dressing in silence.

* * *

_Sorry – only one drabble today. School is keeping me busy. Hopefully, I'll have more drabbles to post over the weekend. Don't forget to review ~_

_And to anyone who has read or will read my other Holmes/Watson story titled 'Miles of Sea', I have decided to continue it. Look out for updates._


	11. Doctor

_Thank you for all your reviews! I'm sorry to have kept you all waiting - schoolwork among other things has kept me away from my laptop. Hope you enjoy the few more drabbles I have added.  
_

**

* * *

DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**Doctor**

_In which Watson is unconscious _

He hears his steps, light and quick behind him. Her fingers brush against the fabric of the doctor's coat he had snatched from the clinic. He stops in his tracks, not daring to meet her eyes.

She speaks gently, "Doctor, I know you care for him as much as I do."

He feels like laughing at her. At himself. At the man half-paralyzed, half-conscious in a creaking bed, murmuring his name in between the half-sobs and frantic gasps of air thick with things left unsaid.

"You have no idea, madam," he says quietly, knowing despite the slight wind, his voice will carry. He does not why he tells her this or why his heart is pounding as he walks away, shoes clacking smartly against the stone path.

She watches the white of his back disappear into the night. It is only when she turns to go back inside does she whisper what she wish she had the nerve to say, "And he cares for _you_, Mr. Holmes, more than you'll ever know."

* * *

_Please review ~_


	12. Warts

**DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**Warts**_  
In which Watson remembers_

"_What of the warts? Are they not extensive?"_

John chuckles, earning him a look of surprise from his wife as she slides an arm around his waist, warm against his chest.

"What is it, darling?" She says sleepily, rubbing a small hand down his arm.

"Nothing, just thinking of something Holmes said once," he says absently.

"John Watson, if you are thinking of Mr. Holmes while we are in bed as man and wife -." She is smiling as she says this but the twinkle in her eye seems dull and the hand on his arm seems rigid.

"Mary, don't be silly." And he kisses her so she won't ask him questions about something best left in the past. When he pulls back a little breathlessly and runs a hand down the side of her face, his breath catches a little. The skin is so smooth against his fingers, free of warts and bumps and scars from boxing matches –

"Darling? John?" She asks when he suddenly turns, his back to her.

"I have a headache."

She frowns but places her hand briefly against his back. "Good night, darling."

"Yes. Y-you as well."

John doesn't sleep a wink that night for sleeping would mean dreaming of another man while his wife lay beside him. So he concentrates instead on banishing any thoughts of the rasp of stubble against his fingers or the cool metal of belt buckles or the feel of chapped lips against his forehead once upon a time.

* * *

_Please review~_


	13. Hypothetically

**DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**Hypothetically**_  
In which Holmes raises a completely hypothetical question_

Fog hung over London like a particularly thick blanket as a man looked out onto the road from behind the cool glass of his apartment, a pipe between his teeth."Watson?"

His companion, a thin man seated in his usual armchair, did not look up from his morning paper. "Yes, Holmes?"

"I have a situation for you. Completely hypothetical of course."

Watson folded his paper slowly and put it down on a nearby table, smiling all the while. "Of course."

Holmes took a few puffs of his pipe before continuing. "So let's just say there was a person."

"A person."

"Don't interrupt me, sir."

"My apologies, Holmes, do continue." Watson sat back, smirking, hands held up in surrender.

"So this person is quite confused about another person."

After a few moment of silence, Watson leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Confused in which way?"

The other man waved his pipe in the air for a moment before putting it back in his mouth and taking a generous puff. "Confused as in they are...confused about how to act when in the presence of the other person."

"Ah. Has there been some disagreement between these persons?"

"No, no, no. No disagreement. Well – no."

"Then?"

"It's...this person is constantly bothered by the other person."

"Bothered?"

"They are constantly bothered by the _thoughts_ based on and or related to the other person. The way they look when they are disappointed, the way the corners of their eyes wrinkle when they laugh, the way their clothes smell...." The detective trailed off, coughing loudly. "Hypothetically speaking."

Watson shook his head, smiling. "Is the person in question confused because they...?"

"What?"

"Have...feelings for the other person?"

"Feelings?"

"_Romantic_ feelings, Holmes."

"I – well – I – one could say...that sort of thing. Would you call it love, Watson? Hypothetically?"

The doctor blinked at this rather direct question and shifted a little uneasily. "Well...it seems like infatuation to me."

"Infatuation."

"Yes. Well, if one person thinks about the other person constantly and watches them so closely, memorizing such small details but does not act on their feelings. It seems more like an obsession with the other person than anything else."

"Infatuation."

"Holmes?"

The detective slowly turned his head so he was looking at the other man.

"Does this have to do with Miss Adler?"

Something passed over the detective's face. He took one last puff of his pipe before tossing it the floor beside his armchair, grabbing his coat from the coat hanger and leaving, the door slamming behind him.

Watson looked from the door to the window by which Holmes had just been standing. He shook his head and took up his paper once more. It wasn't like his friend to be so affected by someone else other himself, especially a woman – a _criminal _– but –

The door opened against with a slam, allowing entrance to a very ruffled and wet Holmes. "It's raining out. I forgot my umbrella."

Watson nodded, keeping his eyes on his paper. You could never know with Holmes, especially when he was a mood. A shadow fell over his paper as did several drops of water; Watson put it down with a sigh and looked up – to find Holmes looking down at him strangely. It wasn't the bemused expression the other man adopted when he was thinking but one that was frighteningly confused, as if he had finally found something he didn't understand. The doctor opened his mouth to speak but Holmes had grabbed his face and then – Sherlock Holmes was _kissing_ him. Hard.

Before Watson could say or do anything, Holmes was gone as fast as he had come, umbrella forgotten by the fireplace. The doctor leaned back into his seat slowly, fingers to his lips, tasting the smoke and detective there. "Elementary," he whispered.

* * *

_A bit long this one. Hope you enjoyed nonetheless. Don't forget to review! _

_For anyone who's interested/wondering: Miles of Sea, Part II, is in the works. Sorry for the delay._


	14. Sleep

_A thousand apologies for my lateness! School, sickness and life in general have kept me so very busy. I hope you enjoy the next few drabbles. This one is the first written in first person – let me know if it works!

* * *

_

**DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**Sleep**

_In which Holmes considers imsonia_

Sleep is my greatest foe. With hell to Watson's prattle about resting the body.

Hell with my body.

(Though I'm sure the good doctor will have something to say about _that_).

A man sleeps one third of his life asleep. One third! And to think he could be doing so many things in this time. Such as determining the angle of the floor which causes Gladstone's rubber ball – ghastly little toy Watson bought him – to 'run away' from the poor creature. Or noting the way the candlelight makes Watson seem six and a half years younger – or at least in his reflection in the dinner silver.

Sleep. What an evil thing.

A man could do far better things than sleep really. I could discover the culprit of the recent robberies three doors down – the postman, naturally – or figure out the page Watson was reading before he dozed off without the need of a bookmark (204, 7th paragraph, 25th word). Yes, there are far better things to do in those six hours than to have the press of a warm body against my back. Because that would mean I would start to drift and that would lead to musing trivial things such as how the gaps between my fingers accommodate Watson's own fingers so perfectly.

Sleep be damned.


	15. Tears

_I'll leave it you to guess whose funeral it was.

* * *

_

**DOMESTICITY

* * *

**

**Tears**

_In which there is a funeral_

When the priest has to speak over the sobbing of the women, he is silent. When they put the coffin into the ground, he is silent. When they walk back into the dark house smelling of myrrh and wax and dust, he is silent. When the stories of her climbing trees and looking for dragon eggs and breaking her arm twice are told in between shaky breaths and laughter, Watson is silent. When they touch his arm and leave in a blur of blacks and grays, he is silent. Only when the door shuts behind them does Watson press his face into Holmes's neck and tremble.

* * *

_Please review! My birthday is this Saturday and I'm terribly excited for my party (yes I am mature, aren't I?) but I'll try to have some drabbles up before then. And I promise I'm working on Miles of Sea. It's just being difficult._


	16. Sleep II

_Watching people sleep is a bit creepy. But I thought this was sweet regardless._

* * *

**DOMESTICITY **

**

* * *

**

**Sleep II**_  
In which Holmes submits to Evil_

Holmes wrinkles his nose even though he's the one who ranks of sweat, blood and smoke. His shirt is wrinkled and hangs off one shoulder, and his trousers bunch around his feet. His jaw is stubbled as it is bruised. He grunts and shifts, pulling most of the sheets with him. "Watson," he murmurs.

The man in questions frowns at his suddenly bare legs but makes no move to take them back. He falls asleep with the cold on his legs and warmth in his chest.


End file.
